Bloodstone

by Gwen Hunter

  I stepped behind my dressing screen. “I need to change,” I said, dropping the robe, pulling on jeans, a bulky sweater over the silk teddy. Fuzzy socks and navy suede slippers. I could feel his apprehension from across the room, his assessment. He didn’t like that I was out of sight. I could almost feel his desire to pull his weapon.

  The cell phone rang. I came from behind the screen, fished it from the bedside table where I had tossed it, knowing it was Aunt Matilda. Not assuming or guessing, as most people would have done, but knowing. Knowing in the way of my mother’s people. And it made me want to scream.

  The phone rang again in my hand. Nearly four hundred miles should have been far enough away to keep them out of my life. But there was a St. Claire man in my apartment, a St. Claire cop, and I knew Aunt Matilda was on the phone. Spit and decay! If not for the blood-aura, I’d think Aunt Matilda was meddling in my love life again, setting me up with a man she considered perfect. It wouldn’t be the first time. But even Aunt Matilda couldn’t manufacture a blood-aura. No, not matchmaking. Trouble.

  The phone rang a third time.

  “You going to answer that?”

  I tossed the phone to him. “Why don’t you answer?”

  A strange look crossed his face as he caught it one-handed. He flipped open the phone and said, “Bartlock.”

  I curled up on the big cushy couch in front of the gas-log fireplace and pulled a lightweight throw over my feet. His cool green eyes flicked over me once, twice. Stared.

  “Yes. You’re her great-great-aunt? Why in hell didn’t you tell me—sorry, Aunt Matilda. Why in heck didn’t you tell me—”

  Near the bed, candles twirled scented smoke up in lazy spirals. The small lamp cast a soft glow through the silk shade adorned with glass beads. To my left, over the tub, were four prints from a deck of eighteenth century Minchiate Tarot cards. The two at the top stood for my parents. The one on the bottom left was Fire, in honor of me. The bottom right print was the King of Cups, its gold foil catching the light just as the gold leaf in the original might have done. The King of Cups. A card I’d always associated with my brother, Davie.

  Breath slowed and caught in my throat. There was trouble, and it involved Davie. I knew it. Great. Just great. What had Davie gotten into this time? Last time it was a woman who was already married. To two men. At the same time. And neither man wanted to lose her to a third, so they joined forces and came after him. I got to hold his hand as he recuperated from the broken arm and nose and various bruises.

  “Aunt Matilda, I—”

  Flames flickered from the gas logs, their heat suddenly offering no comfort. I pulled my attention from the prints, back to Evan’s strange green eyes, listening.

  Evan’s face was a gathering storm. “Aunt Matilda, I—Thank you, ma’am. You are, of course, in charge.”

  Now what the heck did that mean?

  A moment later he closed the phone. I wondered if he had hung up on Aunt Matilda or she on him. When he stared at the small gold phone I figured Aunt Matilda had broken the connection. She was notorious for abrupt endings. She hated technology of any kind. She claimed using the phone was physically painful, and only resorted to calling from deep in the South Carolina Low Country when there was an emergency.

  The blood-aura portent was Davie. What had my brother done now?

  Evan handed me the cell and our fingers brushed. A tingle curled up my arm and I flattened back into the couch. I wasn’t looking for a man, and if I had been, he wouldn’t have been a member of my estranged family, however distant, and a cop. Uh-uh. No way, Aunt Matilda, you conniving old witch. I had no intention of jumping this guy’s bones, heading down a rose-strewn path to the altar, or presenting Aunt Matilda with a St. Claire baby fresh from my loins. And nothing my batty old aunt could do would change that.

  I had a moment to wonder what kind of St. Claire the cop was, gifted or charlatan? The family boasted both kinds, from the ultrasensitive Aunt Matilda to my cousin Raynold, who was as head-blind as a dime-store mannequin. Bartlock was a cop, so I was betting on a little of both.

  As he withdrew his hand, I noted his pinkie ring, a lapis cabochon in a handmade copper-and-silver setting, the band shaped like interlocking crosses. I pulled the coverlet closer to me, tossing the cell phone onto the table by the sofa arm.

  “David St. Claire is your brother?”

  I looked up at him towering over me, and recognized the big he-man ploy. “Oh, sit down. I know you’re a huge tall brute and could snap me in two like a twig.”

  At my acerbic tone, he almost smiled before he pulled a side chair close and sat. The fireplace threw flickering shadows that darkened his five-o’clock shadow to the color of old mahogany.

  “Aunt Matilda is your aunt, too?” I asked.

  “David St. Claire is your brother?”

  So, there wasn’t going to be a give-and-take of information. Cops. I thought the word at him, imbuing it with all the derision I could muster. He didn’t blink. Two questions answered. He was pretty much head-blind and he didn’t rise to the bait of sarcasm. “Yeah.” I looked at the wall clock shaped like a rooster and added, “And you do know it’s after midnight, don’t you?”

  “Your brother owns several small businesses in town. Any problems with them? Financial? Personnel?”

  He was going to be difficult. Two could play that game. I crossed my arms. “No.”

  He considered me for a moment, as if my body language had given me away. “You were raised by Dumont Lowe. You didn’t take his name? There was never a formal adoption?”

  “No,” I said shortly. I saw no reason to go into the details of our choices.

  “Are you aware that David’s history nearly disappears off the map for over five years?”

  “No.”

  “As far as we can tell, he didn’t work, didn’t draw unemployment, filed income taxes on an income of zero, paid no rent, had no driver’s license, didn’t vote. To all intents and purposes, he vanished. With the exception of the tax records, we can’t find a single record of him anywhere. No bank records, no property-tax records, no arrests, traffic tickets, marriage license, nothing.”

  I hadn’t known that. I thought only I had lost my brother during those years; now it seemed everyone had. No marriage license? I just looked at the cop.

  “No reply?” he asked.

  “You didn’t ask a question.”

  Mild irritation flashed across Bartlock’s features, quickly masked, and I settled in to a study of him. He was maybe mid to late thirties. As a cop he was an intensely focused man. On a personal level, he was distracted. He focused intently on me, seeing me as a cop would. I had an instant to notice that before he asked, “When is the last time you saw your brother?”

  The question shot through me, an electric zinger that singed every thought. Suddenly a state cop at my door took on sinister overtones. The last time I saw my brother? Why would he ask that, unless Davie…? Bartlock had told Aunt Matilda she was in charge. What in heck did that mean? Confusion whirled in my mind. What had happened to Davie? “What?”

  He repeated his question as he flipped open a thin spiral notebook and clicked a pen, his fingers long with prominent knuckles. “When is the last time you saw David?” His clothes were of the best quality. Expensive duds for a cop. I noticed these things on one level, while on a deeper level my mind was trying to put strands of information together into a picture that made sense. It wasn’t working.

  “He dropped Jane off for a visit Friday morning, before school, before I left town.”

  “Where is Jane’s mother?” he asked, a tone that was half statement, half clarification.

  I figured he already had the family relationships all straight in his head. Now that he had gotten past my monosyllabic answers, he was establishing control with a series of questions. No surprise there; I’d seen cops do that on TV. But knowing did nothing to assuage my antagonism. “Jane’s mother is dead. Why are you asking me this when you know the answer al
ready.”

  A half smile touched his lips. “Just establishing the parameters, ma’am.”

  That was a half lie. I could feel it. “What’s happened to David?”

  “Why would you think something has happened to your brother?”

  After Tommy T., I’d had more than my fill of cops today. I suddenly wanted to throw something at this one. A well-placed punch across his jaw would feel very satisfying—until the cuffs clicked in place. I closed my eyes. “What’s your next question?”

  “Are you and David close or was there the usual sibling tension?”

  “Yes and yes. We talk often, mostly about Jane. She—” I stopped myself. “What’s happened?” I opened my eyes and found him staring at the lit candles around my bed, which was turned down, the green floral comforter and peacock-patterned pillows mounded, dark green sheets looking rumpled.

  “As a matter of fact—” he turned his gaze back, eyes implacable and piercing, like a scalpel in the hands of a skilled surgeon “—the police have a security video of him being attacked and dragged off.”

  The words were a fist, slammed into my chest. I opened my mouth in a small O, fingers curled into claws. All my bravado collapsed in a single moment of fear. “Is he hurt?”

  “We don’t know, ma’am.”

  And then I knew. This was no jealous-husband predicament. This was a true, baneful, blood-aura consequence. Evil. Just like the night my mama died. The words were a breath stuck in my throat, aching until I got them out. “He’s missing? He’s been kidnapped?”

  “It appears so. But—”

  “And Jane?” I interrupted. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s at home, so far as I know.”

  “When? When did it happen?”

  “Today, just before ten in the morning.”

  I closed my eyes on the pain. I’d lost Davie for several years when I was a teen. He had packed his bags and left home and seemed to disappear off the face of the earth. Now I had found he really did disappear all those years ago. And he had done so again. I couldn’t bear to lose my brother again. When I opened my eyes, Evan Bartlock wavered in my tears, the flames behind him dancing on water.

  “Does Jane know?” I asked.

  “I spoke to her and her bodyguard earlier this evening.”

  I should have been here for Jane. I looked over and spotted the little red light of my message machine, blinking, insistent. I dashed the tears from my eyes. “Is she okay?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  I shoved my fear deep down inside me. It was like swallowing a down-filled pillow, the panic expanding and choking as I tried to control it.

  “Why does Jane have a bodyguard?” Bartlock asked.

  I took a deep breath past the lump in my throat, fighting the dread. “Davie’s rich. Rich people have security.” When Bartlock looked skeptical, I added, “Quinn came to work for him not long after Davie came back to town. He’s as much a gofer as a bodyguard. Why? Is he a suspect?”

  The cop’s eyes tightened and his words were as circumspect as his eyes. “Everyone is a suspect at this moment. Even you. As for suspects with an ax to grind, I would have expected there to be an awful lot of people in that category. Especially females. Your brother was free with his favors, which should make women angry with him, but oddly enough, he seems to leave behind a broad swath of happy conquests.”

  I chuckled, the sound faltering. “Oh, yeah. Women love Davie. The jealous husbands and boyfriends may be a dangerous possibility.”

  I looked at my phone system again, feeling the pull of my niece’s misery. But I really didn’t want to call Jane or check my messages while the cop was here. Unused energy coursed through me. I needed to be doing something, anything, but my usual strategy of springing into action and making things happen until the crisis was past wouldn’t work right now. I didn’t know enough to act.

  I threw off the down coverlet and walked across the loft to the kitchen space, poured water into a copper kettle and turned on the gas stove. The blue flame made a whuffing sound as it lit. Jane must be going nuts. And Quinn would be no help. Anything more intellectually or emotionally demanding than shopping, working on the cars and motorcycles David collected, lifting heavy objects and stepping in front of a bullet from a would-be assassin was beyond him. Jane needed me. She would be heartbroken. “So where was Quinn when David was taken? What can you tell me?” I asked as I got out two mugs and added two scoops of herbal tea to the kettle. Chamomile and blackberry with rosehips to calm me.

  When I turned around, Evan was right behind me, leaning casually against one of the round pillars that supported the roof, the pillar looking small next to his shoulders. The green faux marble column was two feet in diameter. The cop was much wider. One hand was in his pants’ pocket, the suit coat pushed back, exposing the gold of a belt buckle and the curve of a leather gun holster. The other hand held the notebook and pen. He looked menacing, in a I-can-kick-anyone’s-butt’cause-I’m-a-cop kind of way.

  “You want tea?”

  “Sure. That’d be nice.” His eyes were on my hair, which was still piled up on my head, untouched from my massage so many hours ago. Then his eyes clicked down over me, almost mechanically, in a meticulous scrutiny. There was nothing intimate in his expression, just curiosity, a professional preoccupation.

  One little, two little, three little St.Claires… My brother’s favorite ditty. Davie was in trouble. Real trouble. And he might need this skeptical St. Claire cop’s help. Something deep inside me wanted to titter in fear. I turned back to the tea.

  “Where have you been the last two days?”

  “In Asheville. At a rock-and-gem show.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “You mean like witnesses? Sure. I was seen by people I know. I have receipts for purchases I made. I had a spa day this afternoon—yesterday afternoon. I was never alone. You can check.” I stopped, one hand arrested over the teakettle. Ten a.m…I clenched my hand, thinking.

  “Can you give me names?” he asked.

  I named three people I had bought from and offered the name of a man I had lunch with who had wanted to date me now that I was free. I had told the guy I wasn’t ready. It was partially true. I would never be ready for a date with MacIntyre Ingram. There’s one guy I wouldn’t be attracted to if I went ten years without a man.

  Though I didn’t name Tommy Thompson and Lionel, not yet, I named several other people I had spoken with, barely hearing their names or their shops. I even offered to get Bartlock their addresses and phone numbers. He wanted them now, but they were still packed in my Tracker in the snow outside. He glanced out the nearest window at the snow-clogged, rooftop garden and agreed that morning was soon enough.

  Finally I said, “Ten a.m.” I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the counter. “It might be connected, though I have no idea how. Ten was a little over two hours before I was attacked and robbed at the rock-and-gem show. Almost two hours before my room was ransacked. And it was weird—even in the robbery, almost nothing was taken.” I felt a chill at my own words. “Are the two connected?”

  Evan’s eyes glowed a warm green as he considered the question. Maybe I should have felt uncomfortable under his unwavering look, his book-em-Danno-scrutiny; maybe he intended that I feel uncomfortable as some interrogation technique, but I didn’t. Now that the shock had worn off, it was oddly soothing to have a St. Claire man in the room, even if he hadn’t bothered to clarify exactly how we were related.

  Bartlock jutted his chin toward my butterfly-stripped, bandaged hand. “That where you got hurt?”

  “Yeah.” I flexed my hand. It was throbbing, though I hadn’t noticed until he drew my attention to it. “The security officer was Tommy Thompson, a sergeant in the county sheriff’s department. A uniformed guy named Lionel found my bag. There was a city officer involved, too. He took the report about my room and the assault, but I don’t remember his name. And a dog handler and her drug-snif
fing dog named Omar.”

  “A drug dog?”

  “Yeah. They called in the dog because hardly anything was taken. I guess Tommy T. thought it was weird, figured it was something I didn’t want to mention to the cops, like drugs. It ticked me off at the time, but I have to admit that I couldn’t blame him. It was all kinda creepy.”

  “I guess they didn’t find anything. No pot, no crack, no meth.”

  “Good guess. Just aspirin and Midol.”

  Behind me, the kettle had started a warm sizzle. Using a metal strainer, I poured two mugs of hot tea. “Honey? Sweetener?” I asked, indicating the honey pot and the blue pottery container of yellow packets. He stood beside me, adding honey to his tea in a slow drizzle, then stirring.

  “Was David hurt? You said you have a security video of him.”

  “Yeah. It looks like he might have been injured.” There was a tone in his voice that sounded distinctly un-cop-like. As if aware of that, Evan cleared his throat and said, “It’s probably too late to get the sergeant tonight, but I’ll call and leave a message.”

  “Do you mind if I listen to mine?” I probably should have waited, but I couldn’t. Worry for Jane was rising in me like a tide.

  He sipped, eyes sliding down to mine. “Do you mind if I listen in or is that a polite way to ask me to leave?”

  Rather than answer, I crossed the room and punched Play.

  Seven were shop related and I skipped past them, saving them for business hours tomorrow. I listened for my personal messages, hitting the button until I heard the sound of Jane’s voice. She was crying, asking why my cell phone was off, and begging me to call as the message clicked off. Knowing she would not be able to sleep after learning her father was missing, feeling guilty for turning off the cell while being pampered at the spa and not turning it back on until I got home, I wanted to dial her number right away. But the next message froze any thought of consoling my niece.